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She approaches slowly and touches the skin.

Caressing so softly before she begins.

Hints of gentle reprimand tickle

Then talons of wrath send fears to ripple.

They press.

They pierce.

They puncture.

A digit for every sin.

Now downward she pulls to make flesh glisten.

Screams of regret to which, with regret, we listen.

"Sorry" too late.

Sorrow too soon.

And present for all

is salt to the wound.

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